beautiful elven woman with pale blue skin, flowing white hair, and feathery wings the color of summer clouds. She moved not on legs, but in a cloud of swirling mist, and with an ethereal grace and speed such as none of them had ever beheld. To the awestruck invaders, it appeared as if the very sky had suddenly descended and taken on elven form.
But Aerdrie was not nearly so delicate as she looked. From her outstretched hand came buffeting winds and fierce lightning strikes that sent the attacking army staggering back, grasping frantically at the whipping branches for handholds. For a brief time it appeared that the invaders might be swept from the forest by Aerdrie's wrath alone.
But other gods were eager to test their powers against the elves. An icy wind swept from the north like a war chariot, bearing upon it the goddess Auril. In her wake came winter storms that made the worst of Aerdrie's attacks seem like gentle zephyrs. Where Auril passed, the trees shivered, and their leaves turned hard and curled inward as if seeking the warmth that lingered within the wood.
Desperate to protect the elven forest from Auril's killing frosts, Aerdrie spread her wings and climbed high above the trees of Arvandor, then tucked and came at the invading goddess like a stooping falcon. The two goddesses of wind and weather met in a clash of lightning and a rumble of thunder that shook the blasted leaves from the trees below.
Grappling in midair like a pair of she-panthers, the goddesses were borne swiftly away on the maelstrom of their own battle. Soon there was nothing to be seen of them but the swirling clouds of dense purple and livid white in the distant sky, and the flashes of lightning that they hurled at each other like insults.
The Anti-Seldarine horde, suddenly freed from the unseen fetters of Aerdrie's winds, rallied and came on. To the utter horror of the elven gods, they passed easily through Arvandor's wall of protective magic. Their pace quickened to a rush as they closed the distance between themselves and the astonished elven defenders.
As he witnessed this defilement of the sacred forest, Corellon Larethian remembered what Sehanine had said of his sword: Sahandrian had been destroyed through elven treachery. It was clear that the goddess had spoken truth and that this same traitor was even now at work. Only an elven god could alter the magic that protected Arvandor. This same traitor, Corellon thought grimly, was most likely among the elven host that stood with him.
But who was it? Sehanine knew, or at least suspected, but she was nowhere to be found. There was no choice but to fight, and this he must do without knowing the name of his most dangerous enemy. Or was it possible, he thought with sudden horror, that Sehanine herself was the traitor? She had witnessed his near-defeat at Gruumsh's hand, she had given him the sword so that he would fight on rather than flee for Arvandor. And, as he had noted before, she was not standing among the forces of Arvandor.
Corellon took a long, steadying breath and turned his eyes to the enemy he could see. The elf lord lifted Sahandrian high. 'For Arvandor,' he shouted as he led the charge toward the onrushing throng.
The elven gods and their cohorts followed Corellon. But the place of honor at his side went to his swift and beautiful daughter. He was proud of Eilistraee for her part in alerting the elves and delighted that she had thought to search the Moor for Araushnee's token. He wore the wondrous sheath now and took comfort from the knowledge that his beloved Araushnee stood back in relative safety, casting magic with other gods whose strengths were more mystic than military.
Corellon stole a glance over his shoulder. Araushnee stood somewhat apart from the other gods of magic, her hands outstretched and her crimson eyes intense with gathered power. Their son, Vhaeraun, stood guard over his mother as she chanted her incantations.
Then the invaders were upon the elven gods, and there was no more time for thought. Corellon slashed and darted and danced, his mighty sword turning aside the axes and pikes of their foes. Many of the elven gods took a stand near him, for the invaders all but fell over each other in their efforts to get at their most powerful foe. Eilistraee fought at his side with a silvery sword and with chilling ferocity, but she was soon swept away by the battle. Corellon lost sight of her in the crush and turmoil.
A piercing, nasal wail that could only be Kurtulmak caught Corellon's attention. He glanced toward the shriek to see the kobold god pluck a shining black arrow from his backside. Corellon noted the odd, almost vertical angle of the arrow and glanced up-instinctively parrying a dagger's thrust as he did so. Eilistraee had found a perch in the trees overhead, and she had another black arrow already nocked and ready. She sent her father a grin that managed to be both impish and fierce, then she sent her next arrow hurtling down into the thickest part of battle.
Her target was a minor goblin deity who was attempting to sneak up on Corellon. Dagger clenched between his teeth, the goblin crawled on hands and knees between the legs of a hobgoblin who fought near the elven lord, standing nearly toe-to-hoof with a centaur and battling with staves. Eilistraee's arrow caught the goblin in the rump; he jerked up, and his head struck squarely between the hobgoblin's legs. The hobgoblin let out a high-pitched scream of pain and outrage. Incensed, he forgot his centaur foe entirely and began to beat his goblin ally with his staff.
The centaur snorted in disgust and trotted off in search of a more worthy opponent.
Corellon chuckled, but all thoughts of mirth vanished as a rust-pitted sword thrust toward him-through the back of the fairy god who fought at his left side.
Faster almost than eyes could follow, Corellon seized his fey brother and tore him off the blade-an action that would bring certain death even to most gods, but which was the fairy's only hope of survival. The sword that had impaled him was iron, as deadly to a fairy as was poison to a mortal.
Corellon registered the enraged whinny close behind him, heard the thud and crunch of thick bones giving way to flailing hooves. He turned and flung his wounded ally over the back of the pegasus goddess. Without stopping for breath or thought, he sidestepped the fall of the orcish god whose skull had been crushed by the winged horse, spun and ducked, then thrust up under the swing of the ogre's iron sword. He yanked the weapon free of the ogre's belly and on the backswing parried the jab of a hobgoblin's spear. And so it went, on and on, long into the morning.
Beset on all sides, Corellon fought on, as did all who defended the sacred forest. Here and there a form faded away-gods did not die easily, but seldom was there fighting such as this among them. There were losses on both sides, and for many long hours it was not clear who would prevail.
But a time came at last when Corellon swung around, looking for the next attacker, and found that there was none to hand. A few stray clangs resonated through the trees, speaking of hand-to-hand skirmishes. Nearby, an angry faun leaped up and down on a fallen goblin, no doubt leaving a tattoo of hoofprints on the defeated god's backside. An ogre stumbled wildly through the nearby forest, swatting and clawing at the small bright lights that clung to him like a swarm of enraged bees. Sprites, Corellon noted, fierce and fearless as usual. Despite their losses-for more than one light flickered and dimmed as the ogre struck wildly at his tormenters-the sprites kept fighting, their tiny swords darting and thrusting as they stung the ogre again and again.
The battle was nearly over; Arvandor was secure. Corellon nodded in satisfaction and thrust his sword back into its scabbard.
An odd, tingling feeling sizzled up his hand as his fingers brushed the weave of the tapestry sheath. Suddenly he was struck by an overwhelming sense of evil, a malevolence more terrible than Malar's cloud of darkness.
Corellon instinctively tried to shy away, and found that he could not. He looked down at his boots. A viscous, sickly green substance had oozed from the ground, and was holding him fast.
'Ghaunadar,' the elf lord murmured in horror. Ghaunadar was an ancient, elemental evil, one that had never before been seen anywhere on Olympus. Only the presence of true evil could open the door of Arvandor to such a power. Corellon knew a moment of despair as he realized the extent of the treachery within the Seldarine.
At that moment the ogrish god who fled the avenging sprites careened past Corellon. The ogre's yellow eyes widened at the sight of the trapped elven god, then darkened with bloodlust and dreams of glory. Ignoring the stinging swords of the sprites, the ogre lifted high his flail-a length of thick chain that ended in a spiked ball-and began to swing it in circles as he came at the elven god.
Corellon reached for Sahandrian. The sword would not come free; the tapestry sheath clenched around it like a malevolent fist.
Startled, Corellon glanced toward the place where Araushnee stood. The naked triumph on her face chilled him as even the cloud of Malar or the creeping horror of Ghaunadar could not do.
Before he could absorb this shock, Eilistraee's shriek torn his gaze from Araushnee's gloating face. Corellon
